Dance with Destiny - A Graves vs Twisted Fate Tale
by Imaginational Addict
Summary: Graves and Twisted Fate, former friends, have been enemies for years, with one on the run and the other on the hunt. But when they clash and suddenly have to work together to defeat a common foe, tensions run high.
1. Gambling with the Enemy

The woman watched his hands intently, but no matter how hard she focused, he knew that she would never recognize the trick. Not only his were hands too fast for the average eye to follow, he'd trained his fingers to wield magic just as well as any part of him could, to the point where he could fine tune his moves to the millimeter, nanosecond, or whatever small measurement was out there these days. It was almost as if the cards were a part of him now, extensions of his spirit that coated and clothed him better than his old hat. He tapped a drop of invisible magic into his fingertips and suddenly the scarlet card shifted to ocean blue, then golden yellow. He flicked it between his knuckles, swirling it like a ribbon, then exposed his palms as the card disappeared.

The woman's eyes scrunched and she folded her arms, her golden jewelry jingling and glinting from the bar light. Oohs and ahhs rang across the room, but he could see the frustration in her eyes. Her soft azure skin flushed purple in her cheeks, and her eyes narrowed in concentration.

Finally she gave up. "How?" she asked exasperatedly, her arms still folded. "It's not fair. I can't crack it. What did you do?"

He smiled a wolfish grin, turning the brim of his hat down low as he sat back in his chair. "Sorry darlin'. Magicians never reveal their tricks. Now you have to have a round of poker with me."

The woman scowled, but laid her hands flat on the table as a dealer whipped out a deck of cards. "Why are you constantly trying to play games with people if you're so sure you'll win? Is it a sadistic pleasure?"

He shrugged. "Nothin's set in stone. You reckon you can beat me?"

She gave a smile.

The dealer to deal and set up the game as people gathered around the wooden table to watch, eyes all on him, all on the two opponents. He was an old man, the dealer, with wrinkled hands that shook and jittered with every movement. He watched the dealer intently, more out of habit than out of fascination. Anything he could use to his advantage, a slip up or a slight reveal as he planted the cards the cards onto the table. It was like he was conditioned to look for these small things, to have a blank smiling face no matter what the fix was. The people stared lasers into the table, watching the dealer's every move. Probably looking for some sign of cheating, which he wasn't too surprised at. He had a reputation here now, especially since he rarely lost. Maybe once. Maybe never.

He held his hand close as the woman picked up hers. His eyes widened a bit. He caught a glimpse of a decent hand – a six of hearts and what could be a seven spades – but he didn't get to see for sure. That was okay. He was sure it wouldn't really matter in the end.

They played for about ten minutes. Ten minutes of scrutinized stares from intrigued onlookers, of loud jeers and flirts from drunk men around the bar, of giggling ladies that laughed at everything, of a trickle of sweat that had managed to work its way down her otherwise convincing poker face. The dealer, standing at the side of the table, nodded once at the woman, urging her to show her hand.

So it wasn't bad. Pretty good, actually. It turned out that she did have a six and seven, and she used three of the community cards to make a nice hand. A full house that anyone would and should praise her for. The spectators gasped. Some even applauded, sending looks of expectation at him. A full house was hard to beat in the poker world, damn hard. Any person would start sweating profusely by now. Some would flip the table. Other spectators sent sneers, most likely people who he'd beaten in the past. That was big list. Or maybe there were people, people who seriously believed that his career of cheating and winning had finally come to an end at the hands of this blue lady, a woman renowned to defeat even the greatest of legends. That was probably it.

He smiled and chuckled softly, then placed his hand below the community cards.

The woman's face fell and her eyes widened. "Impossible," she said, shaking her head.

His smile widened as the rest of the crowd leered at this seemingly impossible royal flush. "It's the luck of the draw." He winked.

"You must have a fixed— okay, there's no way that could have happened. You had them up your sleeve. Or you did something when I wasn't looking. Or obviously he's," she eyed the dealer heartlessly, "your friend or something."

"I've never seen him before in my life, darlin'," he said, laughing. "I reckon I'm just good at what I do."

"But, but I had a straight flush. There's no way you could pull that right after I—" She sighed. The woman looked like she wanted to argue further, but she cleared her face and stood instead, outstretching her hand. He smiled and took it.

With a surge of strength, she pulled him forward until her mouth was at his ear and he could see smell the perfume on her skin. "Very well. You beat me this time," she whispered, her voice drowning out the applause from the onlookers. "But I know that you did something. One day. One day soon. Maybe if he doesn't do anything tonight I'll get a chance." Then she released him.

He became interested. "If who doesn't do what tonight?" he asked, grinning seductively. "Aw shucks. I hope you're not one of _those_ types of women." He pulled her back, close. "Or then again, maybe I do."

"What are you getting at?" she asked, but he could see it in her eyes. Recklessness. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

He chuckled and held her hands. "Of course not. Only a fool would think that. But I ain't gonna let you get away. You did lose, darlin'. Which means you owe me somethin'."

"I don't have any money on me, so forget it. We agreed that we weren't placing real bets."

"Ain't nobody ever mentioned any money, sweetheart. No, all I want is a dance."

"A dance? That's it?"

"Dance with me. Come on. You'll have fun."

"Do you even know how to dance?"

He laughed. "Who do you think your talking to, darlin'?" He pulled her closer.

"I think I'm talking to a card shark who knows how to use his hands a little too well," she replied with a tempting smirk. "Definitely not a dancer."

"Well then," he whispered as he pulled her near the jukebox, leaving the cards and the game behind. "I reckon I'll leave you to find out."

Suddenly, there was a loud bang at the front of the bar as the heavy wooden doors slammed open against the wall. He jumped, startled, looking for the culprit of the sound. Maybe a party of friends. Maybe someone who had a bit too much to drink tonight. He couldn't see past the milling people, but he could hear the collective gasps and screams from the around the room as those who were closer caught sight of whoever it was, leading him to believe that it was neither of these. The lady suddenly released his hands and shied away, attempting to shield herself from the new threat.

The crowd parted right in the middle like the Red Sea, until he could see entrance of the bar or, better yet, the man who stood in front of it, baring his cannon of a gun at him like some sort of bounty hunter. Cigar in mouth as usual, smiling a smile as if he scored a victory. The room went silent, looking between the two men apprehensively as if holding their breaths.

Twisted Fate smiled and rose his hands in mock surrender as the man across him released a puff of smoke. His eyes shifted to the woman, who was to his right. "Looks like we won't be dancin' tonight, sweetheart," he said, chuckling softly.

The man across snickered. "Really Fate?" Graves said, aiming his gun. "Here I was thinkin' that you might have learned a little somethin' since we last met. Such as how to keep your tracks covered so no one could trace you."

"Only a man who's afraid covers his tracks, Malcolm, and I ain't afraid of anythin'. Not even that blowstick of destiny of yours. All I wanted to do tonight was dance."

"Shut up. The only person who'll be dancin' after this one is me, on your grave," Graves spat and he cocked his gun, the clicks echoing through the still bar. The bar owner, a stout man who had the patience of an angry wasp, opened his mouth but closed it quickly. Though he would usually tell any bozo to take his business outside his bar, he could tell that any interference might be deadly at this point.

Fate grinned and felt that magic welling up inside him. A spiritual wind swept across the still room, and the cards that lay forgotten at the table behind him silently came to life, floating in small spirals to his waiting fingers. More oohs and ahhs, but not enough to call attention to Graves. He could feel the ace slip into his hand and tapped magic into it, holding the yellow card behind his back. He laughed inside. Graves wouldn't be ready for this one.

"Well then?" he said, taunting. "You're the one with the big gun. Make your move, partner."


	2. Eyes on the Prize

Hatred flooded through his eyes, but Zaffre didn't care who Graves thought he was, or even who he was for that matter. She was what she liked to call "goal-minded," which basically meant that when she had something to do, it would take heaven, hell, and everything in between to take her eyes off the prize. It was a trait that she'd had to develop quickly and a trait that Tact often expressed disdain towards. Growing up on the dirty streets of Bilgewater, Zaffre knew that sometimes determination was the only thing that kept her from turning her own weapons on herself. Especially since her deep blue skin and bright golden eyes were an anomaly in Bilgewater, as strange as seeing an elephant with polka dots. But determination. Dedication. _Eyes on the prize_. These things had kept her alive for this long. Surely they could hold out for a little longer.

Scorn had told Zaffre earlier that day what the plan was, made it pretty clear how crucial it was that no one interfere, no one stand in between the Twisted Fate and Tact. Everything had been going well for the first thirty minutes. She'd entertained Fate's ego by pretending to be some clueless bar girl who was interested in interest, fun, excitement. Although she guessed his magic tricks were cool, Zaffre had been everywhere and back when it came to card tricks, so it would take maybe a fire, and murder, and a disappearance to impress her now. It took everything within her to not roll her eyes, to keep her attention rapt and her act going strong. She would need to keep Fate in one spot for a while so that Tact could get his sights, execute, and escape without a trace. Tact was an extremely skilled assassin who'd breathed and lived guns since he could walk, but even he had trouble with restless targets.

When Fate had asked to dance, she contained her groan and waited for Scorn's reply. Scorn, who had made sure to implant nearly invisible earpieces on both her and Tact, would occasionally whisper demands and orders into her ear. Hearing the request, Scorn tossed it to Tact, who had said to just go along with it but make sure not to move too much. Zaffre had decided to settle on acting like the stereotypically bad dancer who was beautiful, but relied on her partner to help her get along. She knew that that way, Fate would have to freeze and stop continuously to help her on her feet, giving Tact opportunities to do his job.

But just before they could do anything Graves had appeared, and only God knew how he'd managed to find Fate in the first place. Then again, judging by Fate's attitude, she guessed that he wasn't exactly trying to hide. She vaguely knew of the two's problems but was under the impression that Fate was too slippery to catch for Graves, that they would be alone tonight. She guessed wrong.

"Stop them now," Scorn said smoothly into her ear, sounding as constant as the time as the men prepared to attack each other. That was the thing about Scorn. The voice never changed, wavered, spiked, or anything. Zaffre thought that that might be the most annoying part about Scorn, but she'd never say that aloud. Scorn had ears everywhere. "Don't let that swine take my prey."

Zaffre got into motion and made moves to interfere, thinking of a quick plan, words to say, ways to stall the fight. But the sound of Tact softly clearing his throat made her freeze. Tact rarely spoke to anyone, even to her, and she was the closest thing to family he had. It was a characteristic that she'd given up on trying to fix. She didn't know much about his origins, but she'd learned to associate silence with tact ever since she'd met him. It was just his thing. From this, she'd also learned that whatever he spoke was like an oasis in a desert. When he did utter words, she knew to treasure what he said.

"Maybe we should just let Graves kill him, get him out the way," Tact whispered, his voice like the quiet hum of a viola. That was all he said, probably all he would say for the next couple of weeks.

Scorn scoffed in response. "Let's get one thing clear: Twisted Fate is mine," the voice silked into the receiver. "And no vengeful soul is going to take what's mine from me. I want to be the one who ordered his death, not some random dog from the street. Get. Rid. Of. Him."

Tact was silent, but Zaffre could feel his concentration. Without waiting for a thought that might convince her otherwise, she forced her feet into motion, coming to a run, and placed her body in between the feuding men just as Graves applied pressure to the trigger. Upon seeing her, Graves laid his burning eyes on her. She could feel Fate's gaze on her back.

Graves sneered and narrowed those dark eyes. "Just what the hell do you think you're doin?" he hissed.

Zaffre smiled. "Stopping you, obviously. I'm not going to stand by and let you murder this innocent man."

Graves snorted in laughter. "Innocent? I reckon you've got your stories mixed up, sweetheart. This rat is anythin but innocent."

"Believe what you want," she said, her eyes wandering to Fate, who was still behind her. "But if you're going to kill him, you'll have to go through me first."

"I advise you get out of my way, lady," Graves said with a warning tone in his voice. "You ain't got nothin to do with this."

She put her chin up defiantly while impatience flared like a gun. She knew stalling wouldn't last forever, and she needed Tact to take the shot now, now while he was fixed in one area and distracted. She listened closely and could hear the barely audible cocking of a muffled gun, could feel his utter focus like a beam of sun.

A shape moved behind Graves, so random and quick and that she couldn't react in time. Without warning, a random young man slammed an empty Vodka bottle on the back of Graves's head, the impact shattering the glass and causing Graves to jerk in surprise. His finger pressed against the trigger as his gun suddenly swiveled to the log ceiling, sending a massive round into the wood just above Fate's head. A cacophonous crash sounded, tearing the tense silence into nothing, and Fate jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a falling beam. At the exact same time, Zaffre heard a slight pop as Tact fired, and almost instantaneously the large window to the far right of the bar smashed into thousands of small, infinitesimal shards of glass.

Screams rang out across the bar as the turmoil of panic ensued. People ducked under the barstools and hid behind friends. Some got on the ground and covered their heads, whimpering like little lost kittens. One of the bartenders, who looked to be about fifty, grabbed a pistol from under the counter and aimed around, looking for a perpetrator. The soft symphony of cries, screams, and murmurs sang through the air, tempting Zaffre to jump on board and act the part. Zaffre heard Tact curse softly under his breath through the mess. He rarely ever missed any target, but she couldn't focus on that.

She pitted her attention instead on Twisted Fate, who had remained standing and was now staring raptly at the broken window, then at the bullet hole in the ceiling. She could see the wheels turning in his head as he put two and two together, slowly backing towards the rear of the bar. There were no windows there.

"Well that's unfortunate," Scorn whispered. Zaffre was not fooled; she could hear the menace the lay between the words. Someone was in trouble. "It appears that he's onto us. And it's all his…I have a better idea. Just kill him too. Kill them both. That'll teach him to get into my business." Zaffre looked around and noticed that Graves was still in the exact same spot, stunned from the strike. An easy shot for Tact, no doubt.

But Twisted Fate wasn't a fool, especially when the games had his life at stake. She glanced from the side of her eye and realized that he'd been studying her for a moment. She could hear Tact preparing to shoot and was too slow to warn him.

"Hey! Move partner!" Twisted Fate growled at Graves as another bullet ripped through another window. Graves ducked out of the way to avoid a fatal shot, but he wasn't quick enough either. His right side seized and spasmed to be followed by red lilies blossoming on his shoulder. With a howl of pain, he made a running start to the back of the bar with Fate, a look of anguish on his face.

Zaffre knew what was coming next, and apparently so did Scorn. Her earpiece shut off with a chillingly calm laugh. Zaffre turned to find the two men, but by the time she faced the back of the bar, they were both gone.


	3. A Little Gift

"Son of a bitch!"

Twisted Fate rummaged messily through his kitchen, looking for one of the health elixirs that he'd stolen from Summoner's Rift, as Graves wailed and grunted loudly from the other room. From what Fate had seen from the quick glimpse at the bar, the bullet had gone through his shoulder, missing bones and vital spots but leaving a small, bleeding hole. Twisted Fate was thankful for his quick thinking – if he'd hesitated for just a moment, both of them would have been sprayed, no doubt – but now it seemed that he didn't think quick enough. He did, after all, now have an arch-enemy in his home, one who was like an angry bull. Only this bull had a giant gun capable of decimating walls.

His hands groped blindly around the cupboards. He distantly thought of how much trouble he'd be in if anyone found out that he'd stolen the elixir, but then again, only fools were plagued about those types of things. If he acted with trouble on his mind, then trouble was all he was going to get. He clumsily knocked some saltshakers and spices around, but found no familiar red bottle anywhere. He groped in the fridge to no avail. He finally found the potion behind some cans of green beans, a little warm but still good enough. Behind him in his living room, Graves released another onslaught of colorful swears before groaning and falling silent.

Fate rushed from the kitchen to the living room, where Graves was making a lot of noise on the couch. Leaning over his former partner, he investigated the wound, finding the small but bloody gash on this right shoulder. He made moves to pour the elixir on the wound.

"Don't you dare put your hands on me," Graves growled, his eyes wheeling to meet Fate's. "I'll kill you if you lay a finger on me."

Twisted Fate couldn't fight a smile. "You'll kill me regardless, Malcolm."

"Don't act all smug," he snarled savagely. "I'm not foolin around with you. They may have gotten my shoulder but I still got my shootin hand ready. You'd be dead in a second."

Fate laughed and tipped his hat down. "You say that as if you can actually do anythin, partner," he said wryly. "Last time I checked, the only one in danger of dyin was you."

Graves spat savagely. "It's just a shoulder wound. Nothin more."

"Well the way you were moanin and groanin…"

"Shut up, you bastard. You put your hands on me and I'll—"

"Kill me. I got you. Just stand still for a second."

He unscrewed the cap and poured the crimson liquid onto the wound, watching as the blood flow dwindled and skin slowly mended its way across the hole. Graves hissed but otherwise made no moves to interfere; instead, he stared Twisted Fate dead in the eye, a look of pure hatred lining his face.

"Aw shucks," Twisted Fate said, grinning. "Don't give me that look, partner. I did just save your life after all."

"All you did was get me into more trouble, _partner_ ," Graves spat, struggling to sit up. "I wouldn't have gotten shot had it not been for your slippery ass again."

"So it's my fault that someone shot you?" Fate asked, laughing. "I reckon the same bloke who got you was fixin after me too."

Graves glared. "Never know, maybe you had some sorta plan to kill me. I've been after you tail for a while now, maybe you've gotten tired of runnin. Then again, I reckon you ain't never get tired of runnin."

"Ah Graves, don't go and start with this—"

"Start with what, Fate?" Graves spat. "Over six years. Six years in hell and it's all because of you. 'Cause you ain't had my back, not back then, maybe even never. All you ever cared about was your own hide—"

Twisted Fate sighed heavily and sat down across his former friend, trying to find any remnants of the man he knew. But that was like trying to find a face in a broken mirror – years of hatred had shaped him into something else, someone else. He knew it was no hope trying to talk to him now, not when he was so set on this vendetta against him. Graves's skull was thicker than most, and his hardheadness could make even the most patient monks in Ionia lose it. When he believed something, it would take heaven and hell to show him right. But that didn't change the fact that now he had a potential enemy in his house, one that most definitely wanted him dead.

He decided to focus on the now rather than go back to the past. That would be later. "You wouldn't have gotten shot if you planned ahead a little," he said. "It was obvious that whoever shot was tryin to kill me, and it shoulda been obvious that he'd get you since you got in the way." Fate shrugged, tipping his hat down. "Always was your fatal flaw, even back then Malcolm. Always lettin things happen, never tryin to think ahead a little. I reckon some things never change."

"Oh yeah? And looked who got away without a scratch."

"Not precisely. I did get a tear in my coat."

"I ought to kill you now, while you still think you can get away. You can't run away from judgment, Fate, and you know it."

"Oh?" Twisted Fate asked, folding his arms. "And am I to believe that you'll be this judgment you're goin on about?"

Graves's glare deepened. "You always be thinkin you can run from everything Fate, and most of the time you do."

"That's because—"

"That's because you always got a knack for gettin away from trouble, Fate," Graves cut in. "Even though it'll be you who makes the trouble anyway. People ain't nothin but liabilities and pawns to you. I shoulda known all along that I was no different."

Twisted Fate's patience broke finally. He glowered at Graves, eyes narrow. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, the lines in his smooth face becoming more apparent. "Tell me Malcolm, what exactly is it that I can do? All these years, and your desire of what you want hasn't become apparent, not ever. What—" he sighed, pushing his hat up. "What do you want from me?"

"I want that pretty head of yours, and that stupid hat!"

"And when you finally get that, which I'm sure you will with how determined you are with this, what then?" Fate exploded. "Don't you think, I don't know, that this cat-and-mouse game is just gonna end up with both of us in a noose? When you finally kill me, what comes next? You gonna leave everythin be, maybe ditch that blowstick of yours? Settle down and find yourself a pretty wife? Or maybe you'll find a new partner, make a new name for yourself and let this whole thing happen again and again, till you die. You tell me, Malcolm, what are you plannin after this? Just what are you going to do?"

"Nothin you say will make a change, Fate." Graves hissed icily.

Twisted Fate opened his mouth, ready to give a biting retort, but abruptly closed it. His eyes swiveled to the main door of the hotel suite, his expression suddenly going from angry and frustrated to serious. Graves, seeming to hear the same thing, rooted his eyes to the same spot.

"Hey partner, how do you lock them doors of yours?" Graves asked out of nowhere.

Twisted Fate narrowed his eyes, baffled by the change of enviroment. But he answered the question anyway. "They're automatic. I press a button and they lock. I put a code in and they unlock." He gave a wry smile. "Why? You plannin to ambush me in my sleep?"

" 'Cause unless I'm crazy, I think that them doors of yours have just locked by themselves. That normal—?"

"No," Fate said quickly, standing. He strode to the door and tried the knob. Indeed, it was locked. "That's not normal at all—"

A loud whizzing sound came from nowhere, followed by the shock of breaking glass. Both men jumped as Twisted Fate looked towards his large sliding doors, watched a small, black, puck-shaped object broke through the window, beeping in steady, high pitched squeaks. It rolled lazily, only to stop underneath the oak dining table near the kitchen where Fate had been just moments before. If he squinted, he could see the small red lights blinking on and off.

The cogs in Fate's head started spinning as he realized what was happening, but by then it was too late. He had barely managed to utter a cry of warning to Graves before the whole suite was engulfed in flames.


	4. The Gifters

Zaffre watched as one of the suites at the top of the large, luxurious hotel burst into vibrant, dancing flames. Glass shattered, blazing and hurtling from above, falling on screaming passerby below. She watched as one by one people frantically whipped out devices, contacting the nearest fire departments. Some started to run.

The second shock came seconds later, creating another fireball. A blast of heat ripped through the air and hit her but didn't burn – she wasn't that close to the scene – but she knew that those inside the building probably weren't so lucky, especially Twisted Fate and the other dog that was with him. A strike with that much force and intensity would most likely disintegrate anyone within close range, and besides, last time she checked, the two were locked inside. No escape. At least he hoped that was true. She and Tact were fortunate enough to track them down here in the first place, but Scorn would be furious if the plan failed. The two were hard enough to kill already. Scorn didn't want to waste valuable time on them.

Tact watched stoically to the right of her, crouched with his eye locked into the scope of a sniper rifle. She could barely see him, what with his dark, tight-fitting armor, black mask that covered his nose and mouth, and spill of neck-length black hair. The only thing that alluded his presence when he was concealed like this was his tanned skin which stood out slightly against the dark ground. She wondered what was going through his head right now, but disbanded that quickly. If Tact ever wanted to disclose what he was thinking, he wouldn't hesitate to do so. The fact that he was as silent as ever probably meant that everything was okay in his eyes.

Unless it wasn't.

Tact's body locked suddenly, startling Zaffre. She looked down at him, eyes squinted, and noted that his eyes were narrowed in concentration.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Tact took two shots, the sound muted by the gun's muffler. His body jerked from the recoil. She heard him give a barely audible sigh of frustration.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked again with more pressure, though she didn't expect an answer.

"Which made it more surprising when she got one.

"They've escaped."


End file.
